


All That You Are

by stormwalkers



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Nightmares, Romance, Secret Santa, post-TEG, secret sharing as intimacy? what could be more locklyle, what these kids need is a cup of strong tea and each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:02:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21907027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormwalkers/pseuds/stormwalkers
Summary: Sometimes, the only comfort is the fact of another person.— Ramona AusubelLucy and Lockwood can't sleep, so they talk.
Relationships: Lucy Carlyle/Anthony Lockwood
Comments: 27
Kudos: 108





	All That You Are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flames and Fairy Tales (Flames_and_Fairy_Tales)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Fairy_Tales/gifts).



> Written for the 2019 Lockwood & Co. Discord Secret Santa! Mar, I dearly hope you love it as much as I do.

* * *

It’s the purest fear I’ve ever known.

Why? I’m not sure. I have the sense of walking through a terrible memory, something I’ve already been through and must now go through again. Why am I here? And where is ‘here’?

I shudder hard, ice cold dread spiralling into panic.

Then, a silvery light—rich, but somehow evil. It paints the world with a pale, sickly sheen.

A disembodied voice. Calling from the psychic reaches of my mind.

_“Lucy…”_

A ghost? No, it couldn’t be. It sounds too sure of itself, too eerily aware.

“ _Oh, Lu-cy,”_ the voice repeats in a sing-song tone. _“Don’t fall asleep, now. I need you to listen to me, okay?”_

“I am,” I tell it. “I’m listening. Now show yourself!”

Looking around, my heart plummets to a nauseating pit within my chest. I know this room. And that voice…

_“Lucy, Lucy, Lucy. Careful who you’re talking to.”_

“You,” I say, my voice raspy. “You’re dead. You can’t be here. You can’t…”

The phantom voice of Marissa Fittes chuckles joylessly. _“Don’t you remember what I told you? A mortal body fails, sure. But a strong spirit lives on and on. I, my dear, am one such spirit. You should know—you talk to them.”_

“I don’t believe you. You’re not real. You don’t even have a Source.”

 _“I’m as real as any ghost you’ve chatted to before. It’s easier, isn’t it? Easier than talking to the living. I know. Our friends from the Other Side… They_ understand _people like us.”_

“What ‘us?’ I’m nothing like you!” My voice trembles rather more than I’d have liked. Where’s my sword? I need it. And where’s the skull gone? It was here with me last. I never thought I’d miss its vitriolic sarcasm this much.

Now it’s Marissa rumbling through the skull’s usual spot in my mind. It feels like the walls are closing in on me.

 _“You know something, Lucy?”_ the voice whispers sweetly. _“When I look at you, I see myself as a girl. We might have been sisters.”_

“That’s a lie.” My breaths are turning sharp and ragged, my voice little more than a gasp. I want it to stop. The fear, the ache, the stomach-turning noise. Please, just stop… “You’re lying,” I repeat.

 _“I’m not, and you know it. We’re connected, you and I. Same Talent, same powers, same potential… Your friends will never understand. But_ I _do. I see you—and you see me. Which makes you my ideal heir.”_ A chuckle. _“Maybe even better than dear little Penny.”_

“You’re evil.”

 _“I see. And you’re_ good, _is that it?”_

“Nothing you say could ever make me want to join you. Nothing!”

 _“How cute of you to think I care what you want, Lucy. That being said, I don’t mean for you to join me.”_ Marissa’s voice darkens. _“I mean for you to die for me. Now open up—this will hurt a lot.”_

When I open my mouth, there’s no sound. My throat feels like a bat is flapping its wings inside of it.

And then…

Then there’s a sickening lurch as something massive squeezes into me, something dense and dark and evil, and my body—my body is like a glass filling with water, but the water is impossibly thick and heavy. It rushes to my fingertips, to the ends of my hair, crushing through my very bones. I’m going to crack open, splinter into a thousand shards; unless I can escape, but I can’t, there’s no way…

She’s done this before. And she’s far too strong. I’m losing control of my limbs, one by one, like stars exploding from pieces of me.

The ghostly voice tut-tuts. _“It’s too bad your darling Anthony didn’t make it in time to rescue his princess. I can see why you fancy him so. It’s rather adorable.”_ A pause; then a hollow laugh. _“Oh, don’t worry. If he isn’t dead already, I’m sure I can find some…_ use _for him.”_

I want to say something. I want to yell and shriek and scream. But my pain is like the pain of trying to talk before dying; there are no words left in me, only agony. My windpipe is twisted shut.

Before my mind is wrenched away from me, I hear the fading remnants of that psychic laugh.

 _“I win, Lucy,”_ the voice whispers, rumbling inside me like she’s thunder and I’m a cloud about to dissolve into hard rain.

My last thought is of…

 _Lockwood_. God. What will she do to him?

Then, like every ghost on Earth vanishing at once, the world plummets into silence. I feel untethered, like a haunted skull stuck in a jar—capable of thought, but unable to move.

Am I sleeping? Everything is darkness.

All of a sudden, I realise _._ This isn’t the Other Side; I’m not a ghost. But I’m not living either.

Because my body is no longer mine.  
  


✺ ✺ ✺

I didn’t exactly bolt upright screaming, but I woke up dazed, shaking, and scared stiff.

Another bad dream. I still wasn’t rid of them. Except lately, the shadowy depths of my subconscious that used to dream up visions of the Other Side had switched to images of something—some _one_ —far scarier…

I looked around; my attic room felt unreal, the air gelatinous. I stretched my toes against the rail at the foot of my bed. Iron. Cold, familiar iron against my skin.

Then I took a deep breath, and it was like my heart was clutching at my lungs.

Heart. Lungs. I could feel them, which meant I was okay. I was in my bed. I was firmly, absolutely _myself_. Right? Ten fingers. Ten toes. Arms, legs. One middle region of slightly unreasonable width. Okay—I was definitely Lucy again. Back in the real world, as intangible as it felt.

And Marissa Fittes? She was dead. Properly dead. More so than any ghost.

So why did she still haunt me?

My eyes prickled, and I pressed the heels of my hands against them until I saw spots. I needed to calm down, force myself back into one piece.

Once the sensation of sinking through the bed had lessened, I decided to get up. My head hurt and my body felt weak and I knew I’d be awake until morning anyway. The floor felt colder than usual, and sure enough: when I looked out my window, there was a cool white powdering of snow covering the street. Autumn had come and gone, and Portland Row was dressed for December. I certainly wasn’t, and I scuttled to my dresser for socks and a cardigan to wear over my nightie.

I’d always liked snow, how it softened the sharp edges of the world. It reminded me of my early childhood, far away from London; making snowmen in the garden with my sisters, building frosty castles, pelting each other with snowballs. Winter days were shorter, gloomier and more filled with dread—we’d be ordered back to the house long before curfew—but even when darkness came, the snow seemed to brighten the night with its pale blue sheen.

It was nothing like the deadly frost I’d experienced on the Other Side; the harsh bite of death that begged you to turn back and rejoin the living. I’d learned to appreciate the difference. This snow was like a little bit of light muscling through the gloom. I could really use that light, for I was still caught in the dark claws of my nightmare. Marissa’s words had seemed so real—as if I was back in her domain, alone and powerless to stop her…

From doing what, though? I could only imagine. She may have been a mere spirit in my dream, but her power had been just as frightening. I shuddered to think what bigger, darker plots had been prevented the night Fittes House had fallen; how Marissa would have spent the rest of eternity if Lockwood & Co. hadn’t crashed the gates. She would surely have continued her evil deeds, exploiting the Problem— _her_ Problem—to bring money, power and immortality to the Fittes name. But that wouldn’t have kept Marissa happy forever.

Whatever plans she’d had, I doubt Lockwood & Co. would have survived to see them.

At least, I was pretty sure my friends wouldn’t. What had the deranged woman said back at Fittes House? Her words wrenched themselves from my memory and into the present.

_I’m going to seek out your companions. Going to watch Ezekiel suck the flesh from their bones._

It was too horrible, too evil, to bear. As for me… “Penelope” couldn’t have gone on living forever. The chairwoman of the great Fittes Agency would eventually need a new form to inhabit.

 _We’re connected, you and I,_ she’d said. _Same Talent, same powers, same potential… Your friends will never understand._

The dream had reflected my deepest, blackest fears. If for some horrible reason I’d agreed to join Marissa… would she have stolen my body? Let her raging spirit possess me? Would she have taken advantage of my Talents until I had outlived my usefulness? Or something else? Thinking about it made my eyes prickle.

And then there was the question that haunted me most. The question that sent me hurtling over a dark, dark edge.

Just how similar was I to Marissa?

As I stared out at the silent night, the voice from my dream crept back into my head.

_It’s too bad your darling Anthony didn’t make it in time to rescue his princess._

Lockwood. My heart gave a little lurch; I shut my eyes tight, thinking of that final battle. He _had_ come for me. He _hadn’t_ been too late, and we’d escaped Fittes House together—alive, despite Lockwood’s best efforts. Oh, he’d tried to stay behind. He’d tried to send me running while he went out in a lonely blaze of glory, Fittes House turning to rubble around him.

Yeah, not bloody likely. That third grave at the Lockwood family burial plot would stay empty for many years yet. And I was going to stay by its would-be occupant’s side until the end.

Besides, how could I have let the most important person in my life die without telling him that’s what he was? I’d gradually admitted this to myself, but not to Lockwood.

Well, not at the time.

You see, a few days earlier, things had changed. Significantly so. I won’t use the word _finally—_ but judging by the frenzied look on Holly’s face yesterday when she’d barged into the library to vacuum and found Lockwood and me inches away from lip-to-lip contact… Yeah. It was about time.

This had been (or rather, it would have been) our second kiss in as many days. The two of us had been out on a particularly long case involving a particular amount of almost dying. That in itself wasn’t unusual. At the end of the night, we’d cracked down on the wicked spirit and secured its Source. That wasn’t unusual either.

The fact that we’d crashed to the floor and snogged for twenty minutes after, however, was.

Why now? It’s hard to say. In the two months that had passed since the battle at Fittes House, Lockwood and I had never managed to talk about our feelings. Two bloody months of coy silences; knowing looks; and skirting around the subject the way you’d skirt around a particularly ectoplasmy Visitor.

But that night, things had finally come to a head. It had been a night of words and confessions, floating on a cloud of long-secret feelings, spurred on by adrenaline. His hands in my hair, my arms wound about him. Being held by him. Being held.

When we’d got back to Portland Row in the morning, the house had had a different air to it. Brighter, sweeter. We’d been talking quietly on the couch—with Lockwood just leaning in for something nicer to do with our mouths—when poor Holly had burst in on us. Of course, it hadn’t taken long for George and Quill to be clued in too.

So now there was this new and incredible thing between Lockwood and me; his eyes always seeking mine, our hands finding each other, blood rushing to my cheeks… Well, that last one wasn’t new. Lockwood could sneeze into his breakfast and I’d be flushing red across the table.

But I hadn’t yet worked up the courage to kiss him again. It had taken a not-insignificant amount to do it the first time, and this was all so new and so baffling. Not that I wasn’t deliriously happy about it—seriously, I was the luckiest agent in the world. It was just strange how a thing so big and momentous, something that had been years in the making, could feel so soft and fragile. I’d spent so long imagining Lockwood in a, well, physical way—and now that a mutual desire to actually _get_ physical had finally been acknowledged, our shyness had bounced right back with it. Besides, alone time was a serious rarity in our house (as Holly could attest to).

But I’d kissed him once. I was going to kiss him again. And it was going to be long, heady and _thoroughly_ physical.

Lockwood… I tried to let the fact that he was just downstairs, safe and sound, calm my jittery heart.

Then I took a shaky breath and headed for the stairs. Cosy Christmas weather aside, I had the shivers. My head was still pounding, and my tongue felt like someone had wrapped it in sandpaper. I could think of only one remedy: a mug of good, strong, hot tea.

Well, I _could_ think of another solution. But I’d have to wait until morning to see him. And sometimes, making a cup of tea wasn’t just about drinking it; a cup of tea could also keep you company.

On my way out, something shiny caught my eye; a certain necklace was blinking at me like a tiny star, its sapphire pendant a perfect drop of water encased in gold. It lay on my nightstand where I had carefully placed it the night before.

Almost without thinking, I picked it up and hung it around my neck.

It was strange; I usually took off my necklace before bed, but now I found I needed its weight around my throat. The pendant rested next to my heart, its cool gold disc warming fast against my skin. I turned it between my fingers... and was smacked by a sudden urge to go into Lockwood’s room and slink into bed with him, curl up in his long arms and fall asleep to the warm rhythm of his heartbeat.

Performing heroic feats of strength to beat down _that_ thought, I strode toward the landing.

* * *

Although we’d only just brushed off the last dregs of November, 35 Portland Row was already decked out for Christmas. Holly had been busy adorning shelves, tabletops and banisters with various glittering articles; I had contributed with a few pots of blooming red poinsettia. With the Problem ravaging our nights, winter was a dark and forlorn time. The festive season provided a pinprick of light during the bleak months.

When I walked downstairs, of course, all lights had been turned off for the night. I hit the kitchen switch and slipped inside, my woollen socks sliding soundlessly across the linoleum. The kitchen was dim and quiet except for the whirring hum of the refrigerator; the scattered remains of last night’s dinner lay about the sink. All was still.

Tea. I needed it.

Making tea had always been a simple, but important principle during hauntings. It engaged your senses—the non-psychic ones—keeping you anchored to the world of the living. I found it also helped you escape the clutches of bad dreams, which could haunt you as much as any ghost.

I went to fill the kettle, careful not to make too much noise. Holly and Quill had gone to their respective homes, but George and Lockwood were snoozing in their rooms close by.

Or at least, that’s what I assumed—until a patter of footsteps cut through the quiet, followed by a creak at the door. I turned my head…

“Lucy?”

And there stood Lockwood, tousled and robed and very much awake. I guess George was the only one actually snoozing that night. He stared at me from the doorway. I stared at him from the sink. Under his dressing gown, which hung loose, Lockwood wore navy blue pyjama bottoms and a crumpled grey tank; his dark hair was pushing the limits of unruliness, flopping over his brow and getting in his eyes. None of these things made him any less devastating than normal.

Especially not when he added a smile that rivalled every Christmas light in the house combined. I’m surprised all the fairy lights of Portland Row didn’t short circuit.

I had _kissed_ those lips. My mind reeled.

“Hi,” I finally said. “Hey. Hi, Lockwood.”

“Hi,” he said. “Can’t sleep?”

“Uh, not really. You?”

“Not really.” Lockwood shook his head and stepped inside, Persian slippers tap-tapping on the floor. “Just one of those nights. I thought if I was going to lay awake staring at the ceiling anyway, I might as well have a cup of tea. I see we had the same idea.”

“I guess so.” I smiled back at him, then went to turn the tap. “We can be sleepless together, then.”

“That sounds a lot better than being sleepless alone.”

As I loaded up the kettle, Lockwood moved closer to me. And when he leaned against the kitchen counter, I became keenly aware of the space between us. His collarbone was showing, elegantly curving along the base of his pale throat. A wingspan of bones. My face felt very warm.

“You okay, Luce?” he said then, and my eyes whipped to his.

“Oh, sure!” It came out slightly louder than I’d have liked. “I’m fine. I, uh, better put the kettle on, or we won’t get very far.”

And so I did.

We were setting out the mugs and the tea bags—the good stuff from Pitkin’s—when Lockwood came up with the best idea of the night so far. “I think,” he said matter-of-factly, “that we deserve a 3 A.M. biscuit with our tea.”

“Agreed,” I said, thinking of my nightmare and shuddering. “Sugar sounds pretty great right now.”

“Could you grab some, Luce? I’ve got the tea bags.”

“Well, the good ones are top shelf. I can’t get to them.” I smiled, leaning back against the counter, hands behind my back. “In fact, I believe the only one in the house who can reach that Choco Leibniz box up there is _you_.”

“Oh, George can too, if he puts his back into it.” Lockwood moved in front of me, smiling right back.

“Can he? Because I have a sneaking suspicion you put it there to _prevent_ anyone else from nicking it.”

“Ah, it’s possible. But can you blame me for taking precautions? I never did find the culprit last time my biscuits went missing. Excuse me, Luce…”

Then, having the aerial advantage over me, Lockwood reached up to grab the biscuits. I followed the curve of his arm as he did so, his quick fingers plucking the box off the shelf. It took a weighty amount of restraint not to pull that hand down and place it somewhere agreeable on my person and wrap myself around him, but I managed.

That’s when Lockwood flicked his eyes to mine. A familiar flush of heat brushed my cheeks.

“They’re not good for us, you know,” I said, my hands strangling the back of my nightie.

“I know,” he said, so close he was practically leaning over me. “But they’re so hard to resist, once you’ve had one.”

My blush could have powered every lightbulb in Marylebone. Feeling brave, I took the box from Lockwood’s hand and put it on the counter—and then his face was moving closer, close enough for me to count his eyelashes as he moved his lips over mine. He brushed his fingertips against my necklace, heat spreading from the bottom of my throat; my eyes fell closed, and a wheezing splash of water sizzled against the countertop…

Wait. Literal sizzling?

Our eyes popped open, the spell between us whooshing away. We rushed to the sound, and sure enough: the kettle was boiling over, its contents fizzing and frothing with unrestrained fury. I had completely overloaded the thing.

“It might be time to retire the old kettle,” Lockwood said with an awkward grin.

Yeah. Either that or stop getting distracted while filling it.

* * *

The water that hadn’t sloshed onto the worktop was poured into mugs, and we sat in our usual seats, talking quietly. The plate of Choco Leibniz between us was already dwindling—no biscuit rule tonight.

There was something endlessly soothing about wrapping your hands around a mug of hot tea. And having Lockwood there to drink it with me? Even better. He looked at me from across the table; we smiled at each other, falling into sleepy silence. Sometimes, being quiet together was enough too.

Sitting here with him, I could almost forget about my nightmare altogether. But then I remembered that sinister voice and the power it had held over me, the anxiety flailing about my head…

“You’re upset.” Lockwood’s soft voice broke my mind trip. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m tired,” I said, then took a very long drink of tea that was definitely too hot to be chugged.

“That’s not all.”

Damn that Lockwood for looking so sweet and precious and worried. I was finding it hard to look him in the eye. So much, in fact, that I set down my mug and stood up and turned my back to him.

It’s not that I didn’t want to confide in him. I just had this dark feeling that if I did, it would all come spilling out with no chance of stopping. I didn’t feel like coming apart in front of Lockwood. I just wanted to sit here and drink tea and, if at all possible, have something soft and romantic whispered in my ear before going back to bed. That was it.

The scrambling of a chair, then a warm presence behind me. “Lucy…”

And when I turned around to look at him, _really_ look at him, I remembered how much we’d been through. How quickly I’d fallen for him, and how long it had taken for us to get here. A long, slow, bumpy ride, then a sudden impact. Like landing by the foot of the slide I used to play on as a child. From the top of the ladder, it always seemed such a long way down; the slide was impossibly tall and—like everything else on that old, iron-panelled playground—awfully rickety. I would cling to the railing for dear life as I went down. But then I’d finally reach the bottom, landing safely in a puff of soft sand, and suddenly I wasn’t scared anymore.

Well, I’d plummeted through the air on a trapeze for Lockwood once. Heights didn’t scare me like they used to.

“It’s just…” My voice halted, and I felt ridiculous. I’d had a nightmare; it had scared me. Why was that so hard to explain? It was just _Lockwood._

He raised a concerned eyebrow.

“Nothing,” I finished lamely. “Nothing real.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said, then put his hands on my upper arms. “I’d like to cheer you up, though.”

“Cheer me up?”

“If you’ll allow it. Besides, it was getting hard to sit close to you and talk and _not_ kiss you.”

And so he did. To further prove his point, he’d barely finished that last word when his lips touched mine. And it was like stepping into a patch of sunlight. A sharp, brilliant heat looped and settled low in my belly; around us, the night warmed. His hands slid down my arms, my fingers catching his as if they’d been waiting. I smiled into the kiss, wondering if, as I’d walked downstairs, a part of me had been _hoping_ to find Lockwood up as well.

It was over sooner than I’d have liked. My fingers brushed his wrist, the soft skin at his pulse.

“Yeah,” I said softly, “that’s definitely allowed.”

Lockwood’s smile was sweet and sincere—and tinted pink from the kiss. “I hope so,” he said. “I rather like it.”

I sighed. To hell with it, then. “I had a bad dream.”

His face fell, eyes filling with worry. “I thought that might be it. About the Other Side?”

“Worse. Marissa.”

“What happened?”

“I was back. At Fittes House. And she was there, but not really. She was… a ghost, I suppose. Some kind of psychic presence in my head. And she was saying—she was saying that her mortal body may have failed, but her soul had lived on. Her voice was telling me that we were alike, me and her. That—that we were the same. In Talent and spirit. And then she…” Tears were biting at my eyelids; I balled the sleeves of my cardigan into my fists and pressed them against my eyes. “She possessed me. She took over my body. I swear, Lockwood, it felt so real.”

“She did what she did to Penelope?” Saying it out loud seemed to sharpen Lockwood’s tone with pain.

I nodded. “I just lost control. And I literally _became_ her. By the end of it, I _was_ Marissa. Trapped, and there was no way out.”

“Luce,” Lockwood breathed. “Lucy.”

“No way to beat her. No way to avoid becoming her.”

“Look at me.”

With difficulty, I did so. And when Lockwood touched my waist, an electric current streamed through me. It landed in my chest, kindling something sharp that made my blood rush.

“Marissa was unhinged,” he went on. I could hear the fray in his voice, the concern. “Her Talent may have been similar to yours, but it’s not about what your powers _are_. It’s about how you use them.”

“But Listening is the most dangerous Talent of all,” I whispered. “That’s what everyone says, isn’t it? What if I can’t control how I use them?”

“You’re in control. Far more than she ever was. You proved that when we took her down, Lucy.”

“She started out like me, though. She used to be normal. Just a girl.”

Lockwood was right, of course; Marissa had been truly unhinged. But had she knowingly crossed the line into evil? I just didn’t think so. Who would _choose_ to become a villain? To step over that line intentionally? What if the line was a blurry one, as hazy as an iron chain fence between worlds? What if the line had crept up on her over the years? Through her hunger and pain, her desire to be respected; inching closer and closer as ambition turned to cruelty, the voices of spirits guiding her madness until she was nothing but a living ghost…

What if you don’t even see the line until, all of a sudden, you find yourself on the other side?

Then Lockwood put his arms about my waist, and my heart sped up tenfold. “You,” he said, “are nothing like Marissa. I know you, okay? I know what you’re capable of, and you don’t have the slightest potential to turn out like her. That evil just isn’t _in_ you. Everything you do, Lucy, everything you are—it’s good, all of it. You’ve taught _me_ to be better. By being yourself.”

“But I lost myself.” My voice cracked. A wobbly lump was forming at the base of my throat.

“Come here.” And he pulled me into him and held me, letting me bury my face in the crook of his neck. How long did we stand like that? I have no idea. I half expected the morning sun to rise into the sky halfway through.

“So that’s what’s wrong,” I said joylessly when we drew apart. “Aren’t you glad you asked?”

“Yes.” Lockwood was looking straight at me. “I am.”

That’s when I burst into tears. Which was silly, because I wasn’t sad, not really. The knot in my throat had swelled and swelled, and now it was all coming out, right in front of him.

I expected him to pull back awkwardly, say something cheerful to make me feel better, or maybe shove off entirely now that he’d seen what an emotional wreck I was. But instead he rushed to me and pulled me up against him again, pressing his lips to my temple. There wasn’t much for him to do except let me cry. I leaned into him, my breath hitching between sobs.

Now that the floodgates were open, I suddenly felt as if there was so much to cry about I couldn’t stop. I thought of my nightmare, the fear Marissa’s words had brought. I thought of my friends and all they’d been through; I thought of the skull, no longer in its jar, and how I might never hear its spectral voice again. I thought of my family. And I thought of Lockwood, of the heavy thing I felt for him, and how it might all fall apart yet.

Too much to cry about. Too much of it all.

“You’re okay.” Lockwood’s voice, at once soft and firm, was the only thing keeping me from dropping into darkness. “Whatever happened in that dream, whatever she did or said, it wasn’t real. That’s not how it went.” He pulled me closer. “Lucy, that’s not the way it’s going to be.”

Air, air was returning to me, and I took a quivering breath. I was staring straight ahead, which was somewhere around Lockwood’s collarbone. “I was alone,” I said. “That was the worst bit. I was back there with Marissa, but I was all alone.”

“It’s alright. I was there then, and I’m here now.”

Lockwood’s words soothed my heart like a soft wind coming over the ocean. He nudged my cheek until I caved and looked up at him; and when I did, his mouth rose into such a classic Lockwood Grin™ that I couldn’t help but give a sniffly smile back. My cheeks were wet and my eyes ached, but it was okay. Because whether we were dealing with bad dreams, fighting angry ghosts or sharing a spirit cape on the Other Side the way other couples shared umbrellas in the rain—the simple fact of Lockwood’s presence made it all okay.

And slowly, I began to feel like a person again. My body was here, and it was safe, and it was _mine._ I wasn’t the property of some long-dead spirit thief; I was alive, and so was Lockwood. My heart pounding up against his was proof of it.

“I know,” I said, wiping a hand across my soaked chin. “Thank you. I’m a mess.”

“You’re pretty.” The words seemed to spring out of him. Unlike mine, Lockwood’s cheeks never flushed—his face stayed pale and lovely no matter what—but his ears, his ears gave him away. They were sporting a soft shade of pink. He said, “So, Luce…”

“Yes?”

“The Problem’s still here.”

“It is.”

“And I know things aren’t easy with work and carrying on as normal.”

“After everything that’s happened, how could they be?”

“Right. Exactly. But… I want to be there for you always. I never want you to feel alone when these things happen—I don’t want to be alone either.” He fixed me with his dark eyes. “And I love you. That’s what I’m trying to say, I think. I love—I’ve always loved everything about you. All that you are.”

I stared at him. I don’t know if he meant to _stop_ my crying with this, but it had the opposite effect. I mean, I was full-on snivelling. It was like the tears were coming up through my throat, drowning all attempts at a reply.

And oh, how I wanted to reply.

Anthony Lockwood—the boy who had always held his cards so close to his chest that, half the time, it had seemed there _were_ no cards at all—had just told me he loved me. He’d _said_ that.

My universe was spinning.

Somewhere between _I love you_ and my second snot-filled sob, Lockwood’s eyes had turned panicked. “Oh hell,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—Lucy, I’m sorry—“

“No,” I heaved, “no, it’s alright. God, Lockwood.”

“You sure? You look rather upset.”

“I’m just—you’re so… I love you too.”

He looked at me, eyes shining. His ears had reached luminescent levels of pink.

“I love you,” I repeated, half laughing, half sobbing, wiping the back of my hand across my nose. “All of you.”

Then I reached up and put my arms about his neck and let my last tear be caught between our mouths. It brought a slight saltiness to the kiss, but I didn’t mind. Not with so much sweet on top of it. Lockwood’s arms wrapped all the way around me, and I kissed and kissed and kissed him. That little laugh stayed between us the whole time.

Minutes or hours or possibly several infinities later, we drew apart. It was still pitch black outside; but inside the kitchen, I felt as if the sun had already risen.

“So,” I breathed, my face severely hot.

“So,” Lockwood said, looking slightly dazed. “Feeling better, Luce?”

“I think so.” _Think so?_

For a long time, we just looked at each other. It was almost better than kissing, the looking. _Those_ words were still swirling between us, brightening the room.

“I’m proud of you,” Lockwood said then, his voice soft. “And everything you can do. I know I’ve said it before.”

I smiled. “You can say it again if you like.”

He gave me a lopsided grin. “How about this—I’ll tell you a story.”

“I’d like that.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time my sister and I first met Inspector Barnes?”

There was a time when Lockwood casually opening a conversation with “Did I ever tell you…?” would have been an event almost as rare as George remembering to wash his towels before a passing skunk could realistically mistake them for its kin. No, Lockwood had always kept his guard up, and pushing to break through his defenses would have been an exercise in futility. But this had changed in recent times. While the topic of his dead family wasn’t exactly his favourite for a cosy chat over breakfast, he no longer flinched at the mention of their names. He’d even shared a few stories, and you can bet I savoured every one of them. This, however, was definitely one I hadn’t heard before.

 _“What?”_ I said, eyes wide. “You only told me you and George had crossed paths with him a few times before I came along. Your sister, too? When?”

“Ages ago—I must have been about four. It was my first time seeing Scotland Yard.” Lockwood scrubbed a hand through his hair. “The first of many jolly visits, as you know. My parents had just sailed into London with a cargo hold full of junk. Of course, they needed the official DEPRAC go-ahead before taking the stuff home. Freight forwarding, special clearance for psychically charged goods, lots and lots of paperwork.”

“Oh, that must have been a laugh.” I couldn’t imagine a shipload of active Sources from the jungles of Indonesia would have breezed right through DEPRAC clearance.

“Grandest part of the job, I bet. I remember my mother groaning about it. Anyway, they took us along that day, and Jessica—ten years old and bloody bossy—was under firm orders to hold my hand, make sure I didn’t run off and knock over something important. And you’ll never guess who was supervising the clearance process, going over the cargo documents with my parents.”

“Good old Barnes.” I smiled at the image of antsy toddler Lockwood being held in check by his sister while the Inspector slowly lost pieces of his soul. “Do you remember what he was like?”

“A bit,” said Lockwood, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and pulling me back in. “He was younger, obviously, but no less peppy than the Barnes we know. He had the moustache and everything.”

“Thank God.” I circled my arms around his waist, enjoying the closeness. Now I really had to crane my neck to avoid speaking to his clavicle, though. “It feels wrong to imagine him without it.”

“It does, doesn’t it? Honestly, Luce, I don’t think he liked me. And I’ll have you know I was _extraordinarily_ cute.”

Nothing new on that front, then. “What, did you run off and knock over something important?”

“No, as it happens. But I did escape Jessica’s clutches long enough to nick the last authorisation document and turn it into a paper plane. It was an excellent plane, but the document was rendered invalid or something. Barnes had to ask his gloomy superior for another copy.”

“Oh no, Lockwood.” I wiggled an arm free to press a palm to my forehead. “That poor Inspector.”

“He was ‘Constable’ then.”

“What did your parents say? Do you remember?”

“Well, my dad wasn’t happy, DEPRAC being dull enough to deal with as it was.” Lockwood laughed—one of my favourite sounds. “My mum always went to bat for me, though. She just laughed and scooped me up in her arms, and I got to watch the rest of the proceedings from there.”

“Kicking off a lifelong love of boring paperwork. How beautiful.”

“Isn’t it? So… that was Barnes’ first impression of me.”

“He must have been thrilled when you turned up again,” I said, “wanting to start an agency. And look at us now—just as nice and obedient as you were back then.”

“You know,” he said, “DEPRAC should be thankful for our bad behaviour.”

“Why?”

“Well, isn’t that Lockwood & Co’s primary contribution to psychic detection? Making everyone else feel respectable and well-behaved in comparison?”

I gave an airy laugh, the sort that makes your chest bubble, and rubbed at my tired eyes. I hadn’t even noticed my tears drying up. I probably looked a fright, but Lockwood was smiling fondly; he knew he’d cheered me up.

Leaning in close, he pressed a long kiss to the corner of my lips. I felt myself go red to my toes, wondering if he could feel the fire under my skin.

“ _That’s_ the legacy you’re a part of, Lucy,” he said softly, brushing a finger against the sapphire at my throat. “ _Our_ legacy. This agency. And I couldn’t be more thankful for that.”

“I am, too. I’m glad we talked.” I reached up to brush a wayward lock of hair out of his eyes. “Listen, Lockwood, I think I’m ready to head to bed again.”

“Of course. Yes.”

“But… I kind of don’t want to do it alone.”

“Oh.” Realisation struck him, flashing past his eyes. “Oh! Quite right.”

“Right.” Why did I feel myself going red? It’s not like I was _suggesting_ anything. “If you want to—take me, I mean. To your room! To sleep.”

“I do,” he said, ears aflush. “Yes, Lucy, I will absolutely take you to my room for that exact, specific reason.” He paused, then glanced back at the table. “We can leave the washing up, right?”

“We figured out the Problem,” I said. “We can leave the washing up.”

And so we did.

Funny how it works, love. It’s sort of like a ghost: it won’t open up until you speak to it, and it won’t speak until you open yourself to it.

I had opened myself to Lockwood, and he to me—finally. We’d given each other something to believe in, and to trust in. No matter how long we talked or didn’t talk, how much time we spent together or apart, I was never quite empty of him. Because I would always have Lockwood to hold on to—and he had me, forever.

And when I lay down in his bed and curled up next to him, our arms and legs interweaving, my fingertips against his heartbeat, that was enough. It was perfectly, wonderfully enough.

Lockwood brushed his lips to mine. Outside, the snow glittered on.

And I fell asleep feeling more at home than ever before.


End file.
